


Kankri: learn from humanity.

by Laylah



Series: Human Behavior [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Dom/sub, First Time Kink, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Painplay, Self-Discovery, Threesome, Top Drop, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you feel that need to dominate—to be in charge, to win—then this is actually a pretty safe way of dealing with that," Dirk says, looking you in the eyes. It doesn't sound like a general, impersonal 'you' at all. "You get what you want and so does your partner. It's not a lot like the bullshit you see in the media."</p><p>"But I sh—it's not right to want that," you say, and by now your nerves are thrumming with an echo of the same panic you felt in Cronus's apartment.</p><p>Dirk shrugs. "You can spend your whole life trying to make yourself normal, whatever the fuck that actually means, or you can accept how you're different and start looking for ways to be happy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calico_Jane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico_Jane/gifts).



> AO3 auction fic for CalicoJane, who sent me a deliciously crunchy prompt full of great character analysis for Kankri and a chance to see him get what he needs.
> 
> Attitudes-toward-kink content note: this is a story about Kankri learning to accept his desires to be dominant & sadistic. He does not start out accepting at all and there's some self-hate/judgmental stuff in the narration because of it. But he's going to get better.

When you first arrive on the new planet, you make it your business to keep track of the others. You were the leader, however little they respected that, and it's your responsibility to make sure they're doing well. Settling into a new world populated by two sapient species—and by both Beforan and Alternian trolls, who are so different from one another that you might almost be differing subspecies yourselves—is a stressful adjustment. You have to make sure the others manage.

As you all settle in, though, you also drift apart. It was probably inevitable, when several of you disliked each other in utterly nonromantic ways even from the start, and the endless stalled time of the dreambubbles helped fray what bonds the rest of you had. You get an account on Fiercebook and add as many of the others as you find there, Porrim and Latula and Rufioh and even Mituna, though you find his borderline obscene macros even more irritating than his constant flirting with Latula. Cronus doesn't seem to have an account; you wonder if he signed up for human Facebook instead.

The updates you get from them on Fiercebook are usually short and superficial, but at least you know generally that they're doing fine. You throw yourself into activism and education instead of dwelling on the past. Beforans and Alternians have vastly differing ideas about how culling should be implemented, and humans are stridently opposed to both of them. After wrestling with your conscience you determine that the human position is the only one you can support—you always resented being culled as much as you appreciated it, and no matter how you tried to articulate your concerns nobody listened.

So you devote yourself to your work and try not to worry too much about your old team. For a while it mostly works. Then Cronus sends you his new trolltag in an email, and you flinch at how appalling it is but you add it to your contact list anyway. The next day you notice he's online.

\-- consideredGrievances [CG] began trolling courtingAbjection [CA] --

CG: I must say that y9ur ch9ice 9f this tr9lltag is extremely c9ncerning. Rejecting high6l99d privilege is 9ne thing, and an admira6le 9ne, 6ut a6asing y9urself 6egins t9 smack 9f acting 9ut in search 9f attenti9n. A pr96lem which, I might add, y9u have struggled with in the past.

CA: its swveeet of you to vworry, chief, but im doing okay these days. i been adjusting pretty vwell to livwing wvith humans.

CG: Well, I supp9se that is s9mething 9f a relief. I did w9nder if living am9ng real humans w9uld 6e triggering, c9nsidering y9ur difficulties with y9ur identity.

CA: nah, im fitting in great. wvhat about you? made any nevw friends?

CG: I'm n9t sure I w9uld call them friends yet, 6ut I've 6een v9lunteering at the l9cal Equal Rights Campaign 9ffice. S9me 9f the 9rganizati9n's mem6ers have pr9ved unf9rtunately sh9rt-sighted a69ut h9w the p9licies they adv9cate w9uld affect the new mixed-species envir9nment in which we all find 9urselves, 6ut I'm 9ptimistic that with reas9ned de6ate we can res9lve these issues and m9ve f9rward with l966ying f9r much-needed judicial ref9rm t9 pr9tect the rights and dignity 9f all the inha6itants 9f 9ur new w9rld.

CA: sounds like youre keeping busy pretty good. you got any free time to hang out vwith an old friend? id hate to think youd givwen up on me.

CG: 9f c9urse I haven't given up 9n y9u. I've just 6een w9rking hard lately, and y9u haven't really 6een making much 9f an eff9rt y9urself, y9u kn9w.

CA: im making an effort nowv.

CG: That's true, y9u are. D9es that mean y9u want t9 spend s9me time t9gether?

CA: if you can clear a couple hours from your wvorld-savwing schedule, thatd be pretty swveet, yeah.

CG: We're planning an imp9rtant rally this weekend, s9 I w9n't be availa6le t9 s9cialize. I'm assuming y9u w9n't 6e interested in supp9rting the cause, even th9ugh it w9uld 6e g99d f9r y9u and f9r us as well.

CA: sounds like you wvont havwe much time to chat tho, am i right?

CG: N9, pr96a6ly not. Shall we arrange a time next week?

CA: sounds great, chief.

You negotiate a time, and he gives you his address. You don't realize until you sign off what seemed so strange about that conversation—the way you remember him from Beforus, he would have come to the rally despite his disinterest, and then spent the entire time attempting to solicit romantic attention from someone there. Has he met someone, or is he simply growing up at last, now that you all have that chance?

You'll find out, you think, as you climb the stairs to his apartment building. It seemed like there were two possibilities for Cronus, in a world that trolls shared with humans: he could melt down horribly on the discovery that he still didn't fit in, or he could throw himself into their culture and thrive. From the sound of your earlier conversation, you're hoping he has managed the latter, and the building you're entering now reinforces that impression. It's human-style, an apartment building rather than a hivestem, and most of the names on the call box look like human ones. Not that you can always tell, of course, but really. Johnson? Yamamoto? Not trollish names at all.

Cronus buzzes you in and you take the stairs up to his apartment. It's an older building; retro, he probably calls it. At least his affectations make him happy.

Happier than you've ever seen him, you realize when he opens the apartment door and beams at you. You're not even sure what to do with the fact that he's smiling at first. "Hiya, chief," he says. "Welcome to my cozy little bachelor pad."

Some other human thing, you assume. "Thank you," you say as he steps back to let you inside. "You certainly seem to be adjusting well."

"You too," he says. "Getting all involved, pushing people around until they sort their shit out."

"That's hardly a flattering way to put it," you complain.

Cronus just shrugs, still grinning. "You gonna tell me you don't have at least a little fun with the job?"

"Fun isn't the point," you say tartly. "And if I do find it rewarding to know that I'm making a difference, that's hardly something worth _leering_ about."

"Bro, that ain't even a leer, and believe me, I could show you the difference," he says, and when you bristle, about to remind him how little you appreciate being the recipient of his sexual advances, he just waves the subject away. "But come on, lemme show you around."

You follow him dutifully around the apartment, letting him point out his favorite things to you. The furnishings he's chosen are considerably less ostentatious than they could have been, and the walls are decorated with posters of humans—illustrations rather than photographs. Some of them feature slogans about victory, and others show young underdressed women smiling at the viewer. You sniff. "I can't say that I'm pleased to see you participating in such obvious commodification of sexuality," you reproach him.

"It's strictly an aesthetic appreciation," he says, his eyes wide. "The style there's emblematic of a real particular moment in human history, a kinda pinnacle of wholesomeness thing. Come on, champ, don't frown like that. Here, come see the view I got." In the interests of keeping the conversation civil, you allow the subject to drop and follow his direction. From the larger of the two windows in the leisureblock, you can just see the bridge in the distance, its supports lit up as night comes on.

It is a rather striking view, and you tell him so. He seems delighted. He ushers you into the apartment's little nutritionblock, with its fixtures and furnishings that seem almost familiar—too squared off to be trollish, none of the soothing organic shapes you expect, but their functions all seem to be the same. Cronus points out which of of the fixtures are "vintage," installed when the building was first built, with more than a little pride.

Then he shows you the respiteblock. The primitive static wardrobifier is no surprise. The human-style sleeping platform is exactly what you would have expected. But then the glitter of steel catches your eye and you realize those are _chains_ wrapped around the bars of the headboard; there are thick leather restraints hanging from them.

You take an involuntary step back. Suddenly you feel like you're not looking at a friend, but a predator. "And I suppose," you say as you gesture at them, your voice more shrill than you intend, "you'll tell me those are entirely for aesthetic appreciation as well?"

Cronus winces, but then he laughs, too. "Sorry, buddy, guess I forgot to put those away after the last time I had company over."

The image that puts in your head gives you chills, makes you queasy. You picture some poor soft vulnerable human chained down there, at Cronus's mercy, unable to resist even the worst excesses of his selfishness. Your throat feels dry and your nerves jangle with alarm. "What have you been _doing_?" you ask in dismay.

He rubs the nape of his neck and grins at you crookedly. "Whatever he tells me to, pretty much."

That stops you short. "You—"

"And lemme tell you, he's a hell of a top."

Then—your thinkpan unhelpfully reverses that image: Cronus on his back, his hands bound, letting himself be _used_ —your body utterly betrays you, your bulge throbbing painfully despite how utterly reprehensible that makes you. You're going to be ill.

"Excuse me," you say. You practically dive for the ablutionblock, slamming the door behind you and taking deep, gulping breaths as you stare at yourself in the mirror. What's _wrong_ with you? You've long since made peace with your decision not to indulge sexually. The fact that something like this would make your body respond only proves that was the right decision. You couldn't be trusted. You're depraved. You'd never even considered Cronus as a concupiscent partner before this, despite his best efforts, but now, picturing him unable to resist—

He raps at the door. "You okay in there, babe?"

"I just—need a moment," you call. Your hands are shaking. You turn on the cold water at the sink and don't catch what he says in reply. It can wait; you can ask him to repeat himself later. So long as he doesn't come after you. You're not safe.

You splash cold water on your face and try to calm down. In a minute you're going to walk back out out there and act like nothing is wrong. You're still friends. Nothing has changed. Clearly he needs you now, needs you to help him come to his senses and stop subjecting himself to—god. You don't even know what he's been allowing this human (you assume it's a human) to do to him. Has he been beaten? If you stripped off his shirt, would there be bruises?

No, you need to _stop_ , you can't keep thinking like that. You aren't going to do any such thing. You aren't even going to let yourself consider it.

The water simply doesn't run cold enough. You feel feverish, stuck in this nightmare state that's equal parts horror and arousal. You give up and shut off the water, blotting your face dry and trying to collect your dignity.

"I'm sorry," you say as you step back out into the leisureblock. "I know it's terribly rude of me to turn and run out on you when I've just gotten here, but I'm not feeling well, and I—"

"Hey, wait, come on," Cronus says, his fins folding down in distress, which makes you feel terrible and makes your bulge twitch. "Was it something I said? We can talk it out, you know I'm good at listening."

You shake your head. "I'm afraid not," you say. Your composure feels so strained, like the least additional pressure will cause you to snap.

"You sure?" Cronus asks, that wheedling tone he uses when he doesn't want to hear _no_. "Thought you were big on process and dialectic and all that."

"Later," you promise. "I'll explain all you like, but—not tonight, I'm sorry."

You flee before things can get any worse.

* * *

By the time you get home you already have messages from him, asking you to reassure him that you still like him, that you aren't angry, that he hasn't done anything wrong. You send him the briefest possible reassuring message and then throw yourself into your work until you're too tired to keep typing; there are statistics to compile and blog posts to write and presentations to draft and it's all orderly, and productive, and not at all interesting to your depraved genitals.

The next day he sends you more messages, starting almost as soon as you sign in, and you're struck by his trolltag all over again. _courtingAbjection_. On his knees, baring his throat, his fins folded down in supplication...

No. You are celibate. You are celibate for a _reason_ , and this whole wrenching episode is just a demonstration of why you need to be. You promise Cronus that you aren't offended. You're glad that he feels comfortable enough with you to share such things, truly. You point out that as his friend you can't help worrying about him when he tells you he's been engaging in risky behaviors like that.

He sends you links to articles with titles like _Playing Safe, Sane, and Consensual_ (which you are fairly sure has implicit ableism problems) and _Negotiation Basics_ (as if you aren't familiar with those already). You barely skim them. He insists that the man who's been doing these things to him is patient, respectful, and kind. You chew on your lip as you compose replies, trying to point out how incompatible kindness is with tying someone up and beating them. You _know_ that. There's nothing kind in your heart when you want—

You can't even face the thought. You leave Cronus's last email unanswered and put the subject out of your mind as best you can. Your work will distract you, as it always has.

Your office is championing a disabled lowblood who's been having trouble with the Alternian owner of his hivestem refusing to provide what the human legal system calls "reasonable accommodations." You volunteer to go serve notice that the Equal Rights Campaign will be filing suit to force compliance; you've had enough practice with confrontation that you're one of the local office's more outspoken members. You handle the tough jobs. It feels good.

The hivestem owner is an oliveblood, which if anything incenses you further. She is not so hemoprivileged herself that she could afford ignorance of the cruelties of the Alternian system! Surely she could do better than she has been to help those who were its victims. There is nothing noble about petty injustice. You press your case stridently, until she has no choice but to agree with you, her horns tipped back and her throat visible as she promises to look into the installation of proper ramps and elevators. Your nerves sing with triumph as you begin the trip back to the office, your whole body flushed and alive with victory.

Oh. Oh no.

You duck into a bookstore instead of heading straight back to the office, a big one with row upon row of shelves to lose yourself behind. You're not in control of your impulses after all. Your hands are shaking as you replay that scene in your mind, as you realize how aggressively you pushed that conversation, how intently you hounded her until she rewarded you with that submissive posture.

This... this wasn't the first time, was it? You've done this sort of thing before. You've made a habit of it. _Getting all involved, pushing people around until they sort their shit out_ , Cronus said, as if it was obvious that was what you would end up doing. _You gonna tell me you don't have at least a little fun with the job?_

You sink down into one of the plush chairs the store provides, burying your face in your hands. You've never been in control of it, have you? You've avoided doing anyone physical harm, but that doesn't leave you blameless by any means. You know how much damage can be done without a blow ever landing.

You dig out your phone and turn it over in your hands. You need to talk to someone, need to process this realization somehow. You can't face confessing to anyone who might lose respect for you. God, what if they all know? What if it's been obvious this whole time to everyone but you? You're going to be sick with shame and self-loathing.

In the end you take the only option you can, and you call Cronus. He won't think less of you for it, and you know he's already familiar with the concept. Intimately so, even, and you can't allow yourself to follow that line of thought any further. You listen to the phone ring, your gastric sac in knots.

"Hey, chief," Cronus says when he comes on the line. He sounds happy that you've called.

For a few awful seconds your voice won't work. "Hello," you say at last. "I wanted to offer my apologies, again, for my untimely and frankly impolite departure after you were cordial enough to invite me to your home. You deserved better, and I was—I was..."

"We'll just give it another go sometime, yeah?" Cronus says. You nod, and then remember how little good that does over the phone.

"Yes. I'd like that." You take a deep breath, trying to find a way to phrase what you need to say next. The confession won't come. Instead you say, quite conscious of the fact that you're deflecting and unable to resist the urge, "Tell me about him."

Cronus laughs, and you're struck again by how content he seems, how comfortable. This isn't the attitude you'd expect from someone being subjected to abuse. "Man, where do I even start? He's ridiculously smart. Like, builds his own robots kind of smart. Hot as hell. Funny, in this quiet blink-and-you-miss-it way. The fucking perfect boyfriend."

"Boyfriend," you echo. You shouldn't be surprised. You doubt there's any limit to how far Cronus will take his human fascination now that it's rewarding him.

"It feels like doing all the quadrants at once," he says. "It's fucking amazing."

"Then the... the bondage and so on." You still haven't asked for details, which of the practices discussed in those websites are things he actually allows himself to be subjected to. "That fills in for caliginous attention?"

"I guess sometimes," he says. "It's still like flushed more of the time, and he's been treating me pale in-scene since the first night."

"I find that hard to imagine," you admit.

Cronus makes a thoughtful humming sound. "You want to meet him? Ask him how it works from where he's standing?"

That might actually be for the best. Cronus is clearly too smitten to see any problems here. And perhaps meeting this man will give you a better idea how to approach this argument in the future. He can't possibly be as saintly as Cronus claims. Perhaps meeting him, seeing his flaws, will help strengthen your resolve to resist your urges. "Yes. I think that sounds like a good idea."

* * *

You arrange to meet in a cafe, early in the evening, later that same week: a neutral, public space where it would be a simple matter to disengage and leave should you need to. The neighborhood is not yours, but not Cronus's, either. The cafe itself shares space with a bookstore, tables and chairs tucked between rows of shelves, some sort of popular human music playing over the speaker system. Cronus and his human "boyfriend" are waiting for you when you arrive.

The human tips his head toward you when you walk up to them; he's wearing sunglasses even indoors and after sunset, like a highblood troll. You wonder if he has as many cross-species affectations as Cronus does, if that's why they have found common ground.

He extends a hand to you. "You must be Cronus's friend. I'm Dirk. Dirk Strider."

You take his hand and shake twice, firmly, the correct form of the human greeting. "Kankri Vantas."

"Good to meet you, Kankri," Dirk says. "Cronus talks about you a lot. You want to get our orders in?"

The three of you line up at the counter to order your drinks, and you must admit you appreciate the human policy of not privileging any particular class in line. On Beforus, a highblood would have ushered you gently to the front immediately, as a 'kindness,' so that you could waste as little of your brief lifespan as possible. Here, nobody seems to consider it, and as a result you feel far less self-conscious.

Drinks acquired, the three of you make your way to an unoccupied table. Dirk leads the way, clearly in his element, moving with the sort of confidence that makes other people yield to him without thinking twice. You envy him and wish you didn't.

When he sits down at the corner table he takes the sunglasses off, the movement precise and deliberate. His eyes are a bright orange you've never seen before in either of your species—though of course you haven't known that many humans. Possibly it's an uncommon but not abnormal color for them.

"So," Dirk says as you sit down across from him. "I heard you were going to have questions for me."

"Not one to spend your time on small talk, I see," you say. "I appreciate your willingness to be direct rather than requiring that we first fence around the subject tediously. It may be less appropriate to say that I have questions, however, than to say that I have concerns. Cronus is... my friend, and he has always been rather susceptible to unwholesome influences when it seems likely to reward him with attention, particularly of a romantic nature—"

"Dude," Dirk interrupts. "You let him just talk about you like this?"

It takes you an instant to realize that he's talking to Cronus, who shrugs. "It's cool, it's just how Kankri is. He don't mean any harm by it."

Dirk does something very human—and, you suspect, very judgmental—with his eyebrows. "Okay, if that's your deal." He looks at you again. "Sorry, you were saying?"

You realize you might need to give him the abbreviated version. "Given the fact of Cronus's history, I have severe misgivings about his safety in a relationship with someone who wants to render him helpless and then hurt him." Cronus for some reason is giving you a delighted little smile; when you frown at him he holds up his hands, touching his fingertips together to make a diamond. "Stop that, I'm speaking as your friend!"

Dirk's expression hasn't changed at all but you somehow have the impression that he's smirking. "It's a good impulse for a friend. I'm glad he's got someone to look out for him." Phrasing like that won't blunt the edges of Cronus's pale fantasies at all. "But really, he's nowhere near as helpless as all that. He can _always_ tell me to stop, any time something goes too far or turns in a bad direction."

"I'm not reassured by the idea that he has a choice between 'let me do this' and 'I'll stop touching you'."

"Good," Dirk says, nodding slowly as though he's the one interrogating you and you've just given a right answer. "If those were the only choices, I'd be an asshole and not safe to play with. A good top never punishes his bottom for having limits."

You decide to approach the issue from a different direction. "All right then. Why do you do it? How do you justify what you do to him—what you do to people who have romantic feelings for you?"

"The implication that I _don't_ have romantic feelings is noted and not particularly appreciated," Dirk says. "I may be a big scary mean top," and he sounds amused and disbelieving at the idea that anyone could think so, "but I have just as much heart as the next guy."

You nod, acknowledging the point. "I will endeavor to be more careful with my language. But you have not answered the question."

"Right. How do I live with myself, et cetera. Same way you live with any position of responsibility, dude. Keep the lines of communication open. Pay attention to who or what you're responsible for. Know when to back off, and do it."

"And it doesn't _bother_ you, having these violent impulses?" You have to fight to keep your voice level; this is beginning to feel too personal.

"Controlling impulses, mostly, but whatever. It actually bothers me a lot less now that I have kink as an outlet." He snorts. "Probably bothers my friends a lot less, too."

That stings. You know how little patience most of your team has—had—for you. Were you taking your repressed desires out on them?

"If you feel that need to dominate—to be in charge, to win—then this is actually a pretty safe way of dealing with that," Dirk says, looking you in the eyes. It doesn't sound like a general, impersonal 'you' at all. "You get what you want and so does your partner. It's not a lot like the bullshit you see in the media."

"But I sh—it's not right to want that," you say, and by now your nerves are thrumming with an echo of the same panic you felt in Cronus's apartment.

Dirk shrugs. "You can spend your whole life trying to make yourself normal, whatever the fuck that actually means, or you can accept how you're different and start looking for ways to be happy."

You bristle. "You think I don't know that? You think I'm not _fully aware_ of how difficult it is to be abnormal?" Your hands are shaking and you have to put down your cup. "How dare you suggest that your perversion is at all comparable?"

Cronus has been squirming uncomfortably in his seat as you get more worked up—as you get louder, you realize in dismay—and now he says, "It's okay, champ, come on, let's all just relax here an—" Dirk touches his shoulder and he goes quiet. This feeling churning in your gut is revulsion, not jealousy. It has to be.

"I'm suggesting that sexual desire is a potent axis of identity formation, at least among humans and probably across both our species," Dirk says calmly. "I'm suggesting that a commitment to respecting individual difference should be as broadly intersectional as possible."

You glance at Cronus again. How much did he tell Dirk about you? "Now you're just saying what I want to hear."

Dirk takes a sip of his coffee and sets it down before he answers. "I thought I'd have to actually make the offer before you accused me of that."

He's transparently prompting you but you can't help yourself. "What offer?"

"Come back to my place with us. See what it's really like." For all that he calls it an offer, the way he stares at you makes it a challenge. "You can just watch if you want to, or I'll give you some pointers and you can try him out."

Your bulge throbs, and heat washes over your skin. "You can't—you can't just offer someone else up like that," you protest.

Dirk looks at Cronus, arching an eyebrow. Handing him responsibility for the conversation, you realize. "We talked about it before we came over here," Cronus says. "Negotiating, you know? If I'd be into that, in case it came up."

They discussed this. "And you were willing to..." You've always resorted to more words, not fewer, when you felt unsettled, but this particular weakness is not one you're used to talking about. "You were willing to be offered up for domination," you manage, not quite able to add _by me_ to the end of that sentence. Cronus nods, his fins pulsing slowly wider, the thin membranes between the tines flushing deeper violet. You want to dig your nails into them and hear the noises he would make, and being aware of that desire is terrifying. " _Why_?"

He looks over at Dirk helplessly, but Dirk just takes another casual sip of his coffee. "The man's asking you, bro. I can't give you a cheat code here." You find it reassures you some that he refuses to speak on Cronus's behalf.

Cronus fidgets. Nervous is an unsettlingly good look on him. "I don't know, it's... It feels good," he says, which is nowhere near enough information. You think he knows it, too. "I like the... I like knowing how to make him happy with me. Not having to guess and hope and fuck it up all the time. In the middle of things I kind of... I feel like the center of the fucking universe, you know? And I guess..." He looks sidelong at Dirk with an expression that says he's trying to decide what he can get away with. And you know Cronus; you know he always comes down on the side of taking the risk. "I like seeing what I can do to him by saying yes."

Dirk gives him the sort of smoldering look that makes you feel like you're intruding on something, never mind that this is a public place; you can _see_ the need thrumming between them, the predatory hunger that you hadn't associated with humans at all. It would probably be prudent to just leave.

But Dirk turns that challenging stare on you next. "So what do you think? Satisfied that I'm not hideously mistreating him, or do you need to come see for yourself?"

You can't move. You can barely breathe. You're so conscious of your body, of the appetites you've been ignoring for as long as you can remember. Your sheath feels uncomfortably tight around the swelling of your bulge, and when you look at Cronus's expression—hopeful, pleading, hanging on your decision—your nook pulses wetly.

"If I went with you," you say, "I wouldn't be going just to watch."

Cronus squirms in his seat, his eyes wide. "Please," he says. You're going to soak right through your jeans if you stay here.

You take a deep breath and then just freeze, your answer trapped in your throat while your blood thunders in your auricular spongeclots. "All right," you say at last. You can't believe your own daring. "I'll go."


	2. Chapter 2

The cafe turns out to be walking distance from Dirk's townhouse, and you wonder whether that was the reason for suggesting it as a meeting place. He is extraordinarily well off, as far as you can tell, to be able to afford such a living arrangement in a high-demand city. But unlike when you visited Cronus, you don't take any sort of tour. You follow them directly to the back of the house, to a room with black hangings on the walls and furnishings that would not have been out of place in the Alternian judicial system.

"You have space set aside solely for your…"

"Perversions?" Dirk asks helpfully. "Yeah, I had the cash, so I figured I might as well. There's acoustic tiling behind the curtains. Honest to god soundproofing is expensive and a bitch to install, but this setup is enough to muffle most things. Keeps us from waking up the neighbors."

He sounds so flippant, so unworried about anything. "I would think," you say, "you would be less concerned about disturbing their rest and more concerned with them alerting law enforcement."

Dirk shakes his head. "Nah, the guys next door are a couple of old bears who met at some Folsom Street thing years ago. I wouldn't be surprised if they have a dungeon of their own."

You are so out of your depth.

"See," Cronus says, "it's like I said. It's really okay, with humans, you just gotta be clear on what you want."

"Ten points for a smooth segue." Dirk closes the door and fiddles with an electronics cabinet beside it, and some sort of insistently rhythmic human music starts playing at a low volume. "Let's talk about that." He looks at you. "I'm running this show because I like making things happen for people. I like watching guys get something they really wanted, and I like pulling the strings to get them there." He smiles for a fraction of a second. "Also, not gonna lie, I've got a pretty bad xenokink, so the idea of watching Cronus get worked over by another troll sounds hot as hell to me."

If you're going to do this, then you should take him at his word and use the negotiation process to its fullest. "Do you mean you intend to simply watch, then?"

"I wouldn't say I intend to _exclusively_ watch," Dirk says. "You're probably going to want some technical pointers, if nothing else. And I'll probably want to get more involved by the end. Be a shame to have him right there and not come in him."

Your stomach knots in shock and your bulge stiffens so intensely it hurts. Cronus trills, a thin and needy sound. You'd been so unsure that he really did want this, at least partly convinced that Dirk must have manipulated him into it somehow, but that trill—

"Go on, bro, you next," Dirk says, giving Cronus a nudge with one elbow. "Tell Kankri what you like, and where your limits are."

Cronus shrugs, giving you a smile that's the ghost of his old familiar leer. "I'm not all that picky, I gotta be honest," he says. "I mean, I don't want to get worked over bad enough to scar, but I heal up pretty good. Fins are okay but gills not so much."

"Emotional stuff too," Dirk prompts. It sounds like a reminder.

"Right, uh." The thing Cronus does with his shoulders there makes him look sheepish, awkward. He crosses his arms over his chest and doesn't meet your eyes. "Verbal stuff's harder, I guess. Tellin' me I'm not good enough or, or nobody wants me, that kinda stuff. That'll wreck it for me pretty fast." He looks so much less comfortable simply admitting to it, as if even the idea is enough to distress him.

Dirk steps up behind him and slides both arms around Cronus's waist, kissing the membrane of one earfin. "You're okay, babe. I got you." He nips that fin briefly with his flat teeth. "You're definitely wanted, okay? Don't push yourself down that hole."

Cronus takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Thanks. I'm good." You can see the hints at pale affection now; it seems odd, but it's working somehow.

"Now you," Dirk says, letting Cronus go and looking at you. "I don't expect you to have a bulleted powerpoint presentation here when all this shit is new, but you got any ideas what direction you're most interested in? Helplessness, obedience, dishing out pain?"

You ball your hands into fists at your sides as if that might stop them from shaking. "I don't know," you say. "I want—I don't know where to start. I can't answer that question. Admitting to any of it is entirely counter to the principles I live by, you understand. I spend all my time campaigning for more equal treatment, for justice. To throw that over and admit that I want to have someone beaten and subservient at my feet—"

You break off, unable to keep going. Cronus reaches out and squeezes your shoulder just for a moment. "It's okay, chief," he says. "That stuff is just in here. You walk out the door after and you can go right back to liberty and justice."

That seems so...dishonest, doesn't it? That you could secretly enjoy the very thing you fight against? You chew your lip, trying to convince yourself one way or the other.

"You think setting up a roleplay scene might help?" Dirk asks. "You know, something to set this apart, make it more obvious that you're not being 'you' right now. Instead it's this separate scenario. Interrogation for a suspect, obedience training for a new pet, whatever turns your crank."

"Forced culling," Cronus suggests.

For a moment you stop breathing. "With me—with me doing it to you," you say, your voice strangled and tight. Cronus nods. His eyes are shining. The surge of vicious pleasure through your veins makes you tremble. _Don't trust me_ , you want to tell him. _You stupid, confused wreck of a troll, don't let me do this._

"That looks like a yes," Dirk says wryly. "Why don't you guys pick a safeword that'll work for both of you, and then Kankri and I can do a little top-secret dom planning before we get going?"

Yes. Right. A safeword, so he can tell you if you go too far. That should help, shouldn't it? It should keep you from doing too much harm. Dirk turns away to go fiddle with a cabinet on the other side of the room. You clear your throat. "Do you have a regular safeword you prefer?"

Cronus's mouth crooks up at one corner. "I been using 'problematics,' but I think we might need something else."

You blush. "Yes. Yes, I think so." You have no idea how to feel about that choice, what he could mean by it. You're not sure what to suggest in its place, though.

"Meenah," Cronus says quietly.

The suggestion throws you for a moment, even as you recognize how well it would work—certainly there would be no reason to call on her in the middle of things. And it would definitely jar you both out of your train of thought.

"That's... acceptable," you say. You think you've already seen him more vulnerable tonight than ever in your prior acquaintance, and you haven't even truly begun. You look across the room at Dirk. The cabinet is open now, and you can see that it's full of...implements.

"Go on," Cronus says, "go have your top secret meeting. I'll be here." He leans against the wall, all casual confidence again, and you find yourself instantly craving the bare vulnerability that just vanished.

"Okay," Dirk murmurs as you join him at the cabinet, "give me a really quick crash course on what culling means for you guys."

You blink. That wasn't where you expected this to go. "It's—it was—a caretaking process instituted by the Empress. Highbloods would take charge of the abnormal and unfit, and look after them to ensure they were kept safe and unharmed." Bitterness creeps into your tone. "Whether they wanted it or not."

"So now you're flipping it, huh?" Dirk nods. "Hot."

"It seems hideously irresponsible," you mutter. "Trivializing."

He shakes his head. "I could go on hells of a tangent here about the emotional foundations for eroticizing real threats, but I'm pretty sure we have better things to torment Cronus with than boredom. Remind me later and we'll talk theory."

"I will," you say, surprised by the way that made his face light up. Nobody ever _wants_ to discuss theory with you.

"Meantime, I figure there are two ways we could play this. One, you could be playing out 'rebellious cullee turns the tables on his culler.' Or two, we could flip the whole system and claim you've got the weight of the system behind you insisting that he submit."

You chirp, and your hand flies to your throat in embarrassment. "I-I admit the second is. Appealing." Your gaze flicks to the implements in the cabinet, the assortment of whips and crops and canes. "Though I'm not sure how it squares with using... any of these."

"It's forced, right?" Dirk says with a shrug. "He's resisting. You need to break down his resistance. Get him to accept that you're in control. That you know what's best for him. That what's best for him is whatever you want to do to him."

Your whole body is on fire. You'd never have thought anyone, much less an alien, could arouse you so intensely with just words. "I don't want to go too far," you say, which is only half true. Part of you wants to utterly wreck him, reduce him to a sobbing, whimpering mess; it's just that the rest of you is terrified of letting it happen.

"You can safeword too, you know. It's not just for _his_ limits." You almost wish you could resent Dirk for having so many answers—you thought you'd had more than enough of people telling you how things would be—except that he keeps providing solutions to your problems. "I'm going to be your lieutenant here, or your orderly, whatever the right term is. If you need to take a break for a minute, you can tell me to continue the session, and I'll keep it up until you're ready to jump back in. If you need to really stop for good, tell me to finish it, and I'll get Cronus safely brought down so we can all move on to the aftercare together."

"You are being extraordinarily patient and helpful," you say. "You must enjoy pulling the puppet strings quite a lot."

"Guilty as charged," Dirk allows, nodding to you in an I-concede-the-point gesture. "Does this setup work for you?"

"I think so, yes." You turn your attention to the implement cabinet more fully. "I suppose, then, that I should be asking you about how to use some of these." You touch an arrangement of leather straps and rings hanging on one side. A bridle, you realize, fitted to troll proportions instead of hoofbeast ones. There are blinders to restrict vision, and a rubber-coated bit. "This...would completely prevent speech, wouldn't it?"

"Honestly, I wouldn't recommend a gag for your first scene," Dirk says, and you stifle your disappointment. "You'll probably want to get feedback from him at some point, so ordering him to not speak without permission is a better bet."

"What if he does something he doesn't have permission to do?" You shouldn't be so delighted by the chance to treat Cronus like a lesser being, something talked about instead of talked to. You shouldn't enjoy it this much.

"Well, that depends on how you feel about it," Dirk says. "If you don't really want to discourage the behavior, it's a good excuse to flog him some. If he's actually doing dumb shit and needs to cut it out, then I've found the best punishment is to just stop what you're doing and give him no attention until he corrects his mistake."

You laugh, which almost covers the painful spike of arousal at the idea of training a fellow troll like an animal. "Of course," you say. "Of course withholding attention is the way to actually make him sorry."

He goes over most of the rest of the cabinet's contents with you in quick succession, pointing out which striking implements are safe to use on which body parts, explaining how various binding devices are applied. You make note of which ones provoke the most intense physical responses when you consider them.

"So, you get all that?" he says at last, when he's reviewed your options fairly thoroughly.

"I'm as ready as I'm going to be," you say. Your nerves jangle with adrenaline and you're still terrified that something could go grotesquely wrong, but you keep reminding yourself that there are failsafes in place. You've seen that Dirk cares for Cronus; he'll stop you if you lose control of your urges and go too far.

"Sounds good," he says. "Let's make this happen."

Cronus is smiling at you in delight when you come back over to him, and you... You hope you'll live up to that delighted anticipation. "You're gonna do great," he says, as if he can hear your thoughts. Or, more likely, as if you're wearing your worry on your face.

Dirk steps up right next to him and kisses his cheek. "Okay, bro, here's what we're thinking. You're trying to flee the system so you don't get culled. Only then you get caught. And what are we supposed to do with a rebellious brat who doesn't appreciate it when people are trying to help him?"

"Punish him?" Cronus guesses.

"I'd prefer to call it corrective discipline," you say, and watch his fins flutter. "I only want to help my wayward charge understand what's best for him."

Ugh, that's so _atrocious_. Something inside you—your sense of decency, perhaps—is squirming. You can't believe you're turning those toxic excuses into a game. And yet taking on the oppressive role is such a heady thrill.

"I'm in," Cronus says. "I'm so in."

"Fuck yeah," Dirk says. "Step outside, give us a count of sixty to be ready for you, and when you come back we're in scene."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really meant to have this whole story done by June 15. But I also expected I would be writing a 3-5k story for the auction, when instead it looks like I'm aiming at 12-14k.
> 
> THE SECOND HALF WILL GO UP AS SOON AS I CAN GET THROUGH IT, I know this is a terrible cocktease of a place to stop.


	3. Chapter 3

Cronus darts back into the room and slams it behind him, leaning against it, breathing hard. The frightened, hunted look on his face—god, the way his fins are canted back in dismay—makes you want to sink your claws into him and snarl.

Dirk grabs him by the wrists before you've moved. "There you are," he says roughly, as Cronus struggles in his grip. The scuffle doesn't last long, and then Dirk has Cronus's arms pulled behind his back. "You're a troublemaker, aren't you?"

"Fuck off," Cronus says, teeth bared, but his voice still sounds more frightened than aggressive. It's almost pitiful, but that doesn't even blunt the edges of your need.

"That's no way to speak to anyone who is trying to help you," you tell him, with as much arrogance in your voice as you can manage. "Don't be so rude and ungrateful." You're echoing things that you've had said to you, and it feels so nastily pleasant to be on the other side of that line.

"Don't remember asking for your help," Cronus answers sulkily.

You step up into his personal space, watching his shoulders stiffen and his horns tip back. "And that is exactly why you were assigned to _me_. Because you're too stubborn to do this the easy way." Cronus whines, and your nook throbs. "Do you understand me?"

He catches his lip between his sharp highblood teeth and nods, looking at you like he's never really seen you before, like he's in awe of you now. How much could you make him do? How much could you do to him?

When you glance over Cronus's shoulder at Dirk he's smiling just slightly, and he nods to you once in approval. "Should I strip him for examination, boss?" he asks, casually, as if it's no big deal either way.

That's horrid. You're thrilled. "I think that would be for the best," you say. You meet Cronus's eyes and smile. "And perhaps it'll make you a little less inclined to run off again, hmm?"

"Oh god," Cronus whimpers, and you can smell the wash of pheromones off his skin. That's immensely reassuring; he couldn't fake that if he wanted to.

"Since he _is_ such a troublemaker, though," you say, "let me help with that. Just hold him for a moment, please."

"Sure thing, boss," Dirk says. You like having him call you that.

You take a moment to retrieve some equipment from the cabinet. You blushed hot when Dirk explained to you how the spreader bar worked, and you're shaking a bit with nerves as you bring it back now. Cronus's eyes go wide and he licks his lips, his expression a heady mix of fear and lust.

"Just look at all this trouble you're putting us through," you say, shaking your head as you set the spreader bar down and reach for the button of his jeans. "I do hope you'll be prepared to show proper appreciation by the time we're done with you."

Cronus squirms and struggles as you pull his jeans and underwear down, but the motion only helps to get him out of his clothes. Possibly that was the intent. His little snarls have more than a little moan to them, after all.

You strap one of the spreader bar's cuffs around his thigh, slightly more slowly than you need to, touching the coldness of his skin and letting yourself be unnerved by the proximity. His bulge sheath is dilating by the time you push his legs apart so you can attach the other cuff. The bar will keep his legs apart, about two spread handspans at the knees—it shouldn't be uncomfortable but you doubt he'll be going far like this. And, of course, it's horribly undignified.

"There," you say as you stand again. "That should keep you from running off without permission, shouldn't it?" Cronus nods, mute, staring at you in desperate awe. Every belittling thing you say to him makes you more aware of your bulge. You want to have him, to hurt him and use him and reduce him to a trembling wreck.

You pull up the hem of his shirt and Dirk helps you wrestle one of Cronus's arms free of it. You cuff that wrist to the corresponding thigh before repeating the process on the other side. Dirk pulls the shirt off the rest of the way and then you have Cronus helpless between you, his legs spread, his hands down at his sides so he can neither fight you nor cover himself. You trail one fingertip down his thorax, just at the front edge of his gills. Cronus trembles, and his bulge makes a wet sound as it slides from its sheath.

"There, you see? Isn't that better than running off somewhere by yourself?" Your hand slides further down, far enough to trace the curve of a hipbone, and you pull back when his bulge tries to reach for you. "You're much better off like this."

"Sir," Cronus breathes, and _oh_. You could get used to that.

"You still want to discipline him, boss?" Dirk asks.

You lick your lips. "I think I'd better, yes."

"Come on, brat." Dirk catches Cronus by the nape and drags him over to the table. It's supremely awkward for Cronus to stumble even that far, and he seems to be mock-struggling again, but he trills when Dirk pushes him down across the table. His spine arches, presenting like he's an animal in heat. You can smell the salt of his fluids and the heady sharpness of his arousal. He wants to be used. You're going to beat him, scratch him, bite him, and he's going to love it.

You take down a riding crop from Dirk's collection of implements, and after a moment's hesitation a whip-thin cane as well. There are other things that fascinate you—like the braided cat-o-nine with tails nearly as long as your arm—but they'd be harder to control, and you don't want to make mistakes. You want to be in control of what you do to him. How you hurt him.

His nook glistens wetly as you walk back toward him, as you admire his helplessness and he rocks his hips back again. "Look at you," you say. "No self-control at all. Clearly you shouldn't be left alone. You need someone to take charge of you and instill the discipline you're lacking." You run your claws up the back of one thigh and he trembles.

"Please," he moans. "Please, chief, I wanna be good, I just can't help myself. Please fix me up, please make me better."

_Oh_. "It's good to see that you're learning your place," you say. You swallow hard. "Now let's see how sincere you are."

You raise the crop, and for a moment you hesitate there, glancing up at Dirk. Really, they both trust you to do this? Dirk nods, and then mouths slowly and clearly _go for it_. You swing.

You don't think you even hit him very hard—you're certainly not putting much force behind it—but he jumps, his gills flexing sharply as his whole body shivers. You do it again. The flat end of the crop smacks against his thigh, a satisfying sharp _crack_ , and in its wake you hear him chirp. God, you want more.

You strike him harder, your nerves on fire, your body suffused with the bright hot thrill of victory. Cronus writhes against the table as you find your rhythm, not as if he's trying to get away but as if he's aroused by the pain. His skin is flushing lavender under the repeated blows, and you want very badly to touch it, tender as it must be.

A second later you realize there's no reason you _can't_. You lower the crop and reach for him with your free hand, running your fingertips up the back of his thigh. He trembles, trying to push toward your hand, trilling obscenely. The blood-flushed skin is warmer than his usual temperature. On impulse, you pinch him and twist your fingers sharply. He keens, jerking away from you, and you freeze.

"Use your words, Cronus," Dirk says, his tone such a perfect, patient mimicry of an actual culling services worker that you're almost alarmed. "Kankri's going to a lot of trouble for you. Don't you think you should let him know how you feel about that?"

Cronus sucks in a deep breath. "It's good," he says, breathy and wonderful. "It's good, it's so good."

"And what do you say when someone does something for you?" you prompt him.

"Thank you," he gasps out. "Thank you, sir."

You run your claws over that tender skin; you keep them trimmed short so you don't alarm your human coworkers, but they're still enough to make Cronus shudder. You drag them over the delicate inside of his thigh and meet wetness; when you pull your hand back, your fingers are smeared with violet.

"Still can't control yourself, I see," you say. You walk around the table to look at his face, looking down at him where Dirk has him pinned by the nape. His cheeks are flushed, his pupils huge and dark. You show him the mess on your fingers, your hand close enough that he'll be able to smell it. "Look what you've done."

"Lemme fix it chief, lemme take care of it," Cronus pleads. He strains toward you, extending his tongue to try to reach. It's so utterly filthy and depraved—for a second you don't even move, stunned that he would offer, that he would make it so easy.

Then you push your fingers into his open mouth, and he hums around them as he sucks his fluids off your skin. You stroke his tongue, marvel at how well he keeps his teeth away from your flesh, wonder suddenly and vividly if the wet softness of his mouth is anything like the feel of his nook. Your jeans are soaking wet, your sheath dilated; the only reason your bulge hasn't emerged is that it doesn't have room.

Dirk leans into you, human-warm, and brings his mouth to your ear so he can murmur, "You're doing great. He can probably take the cane now that he's warmed up some."

You take your hand back, and Cronus whimpers when you release his mouth. He wants you so much it's intoxicating. "Let's see what you've learned now, shall we?" you ask sweetly.

When you come back around behind him you take up the crop again, partly because that wonderful flush has started to fade but partly because you have an irrational need to keep Dirk from orchestrating _everything_ about this encounter. The smack of leather against Cronus's skin is so satisfying, and watching the color rise across his glutes and thighs again makes you feel viciously delighted. The spot where you pinched him looks like it's bruising, and you want more. _That's_ what makes you pick up the cane.

It's a remarkably primitive little instrument, a narrow length of bamboo with raw leather wrapped around one end to make a handle. It weighs almost nothing; it seems counterintuitive for this to be the more vicious implement of the two. You swing it through the air to get a feel for its movement and it cuts the air with a sharp little audible swish. Cronus shudders. Delight sparks along your spine, and you do it again. Cronus whines, desperate and submissive.

God, you can smell him, the pheromones rising off his skin, the fluids dripping down his thighs. The soft tissues of his nook are swollen plump and wet, and he couldn't hide that from you if he wanted to. He's helpless. You want him so much.

You lash out with the cane. It whistles through the air and hits his skin with a dull snap—and Cronus wails, writhing desperately as though he's trying to escape. For a second you're horrified, sure that you've gone too far, sure that he'll call things off now. Will he ever forgive you for hurting him, or for the way you badly want to do that again?

But he's not asking you to stop, you realize. He's taking deep, shuddering breaths, calming himself down, relaxing across the table again. Dirk is running slow fingers through his hair, and when he sees you looking he smiles reassuringly.

You touch the welt the cane left, twin raised lines of lavender with a violet-black bruise running between them. The noise Cronus makes then is more obviously sensual, still pained but longing.

"You look so beautiful like this," you tell him hoarsely. You're forgetting your role but you can't help yourself.

He shivers. "Anything you want, chief, I'm, I'm yours to train, to—"

"Mine to discipline as I see fit," you say, queasy with the thrill of it.

"Yes, yes," he moans, "ain't gonna try to get away again, promise, I learned my lesson, it's better here," and he's pushing into your hand even though that must hurt. You press harder on the fresh bruise and his gills flutter but he doesn't shy away.

You lick your lips. "I think I might need to give you a few more stripes to match this one, just to make sure the lesson sticks."

He takes a deep breath. "Thank you, sir."

How can he just _agree_ to it? How can he be so willing to give you what you want? This encounter is doing things to you, not just the arousal but a desperate, protective admiration. You want to take him apart and put him back together, force all of his buried good traits to the surface. Is this anything like what Dirk feels? Is this how it's supposed to go?

You gather your thoughts and step back, gauging the distance before you strike again. You give him six strokes with the cane in total, roughly parallel lines down the backs of his thighs. He sobs and whimpers at each one, but even though you give him plenty of time to use his safeword between strokes—or even tell you plainly to stop; you don't think you could bring yourself to ignore it if he said _no_ —he does nothing of the sort. His bruises are so vivid, so beautiful. The way he can't hold still, the way the pain reduces him to a writhing, warbling mess—

After that sixth stroke you set the cane down on the table beside him and run your bare hand over his skin instead. He whimpers like you're hurting him just as much with the kindness, after what you've put him through, and you trail your fingers more purposefully along the marks the cane left.

"You should see how you look right now," you tell him. "So helpless. So desperate."

"'S good?" he slurs, still pushing into your touch like a needy purrbeast.

"Yes," you breathe, and something cracks open inside you as you admit it. "Yes. Perfect."

You stroke his back, run your nails down his skin gently, shaken by the amount of tenderness you're feeling all at once. Is this why Cronus claimed it didn't feel caliginous? Does Dirk feel anything like this? You look up, suddenly self-conscious, but there's nothing judgmental in his expression as he watches you. If anything, you'd call his expression _satisfied_.

Then Cronus makes another sound, a stifled trill accompanied by a wet slide, and Dirk's eyebrows rise. "That sounds like unauthorized recreation to me," he says.

"It does, doesn't it?" you say. Calling it something so detached and euphemistic helps you find the fortitude for what you want to do next. You shake your head. "The poor thing really can't help himself, even when he's trying to behave."

"S-sorry, chief," Cronus says as you take a step back to look. "I wanna be good, I do."

"I know you do," you reassure him. "That's why we're here to help you. This is for your own good. You understand that, don't you?"

He trills his assent, and you look down.

His bulge is writhing, squirming, pushing up into his nook. Slurry trickles down his thighs as he pails himself, the motion slow and insistent. You can't look away; it's the most obscene thing you've ever seen.

You have to swallow several times to find your voice. "You poor thing," you say. "Still unable to control yourself. I suppose we'll have to provide you some assistance. Dirk, if you would." You think that sounded plausible, not too much like you're just painfully unsure of your next move.

"You got it, boss," Dirk says. "Give me a hand getting him onto his back?"

"Of course," you say. You are partners here, doing your duty to aid the poor unfortunate in your care—who is, spread and bound like this, entirely incapable of simply moving himself. Between the two of you it's a simple task to turn Cronus over, to arrange him flat on his back on the table, legs raised, toes curled against the table's edge. If anything, this position gives you an even better view of his desperation, the steady coil and plunge of his bulge. When you make yourself look up at his face, he's watching you, his fins spread wide and his mouth open.

"I just couldn't help it," he says, like it's an apology. "Feels so good, is all."

You move around the table to be able to touch his fin, to stroke the rim and watch his eyes flutter closed. "Of course it does," you say, even though you're still amazed that appears to be true. "And I want you to know that we appreciate—I appreciate—the fact that you're trying to be good." You mean that both in character and out of it; the plan called for him to fight you, but you're finding this much easier, watching him struggle but hearing him affirm that he's willing to suffer for you.

He turns his head to kiss your palm. "Doin' my best," he says. "Wanna make you proud."

That takes your breath away. You're still tongue-tied when Cronus whines pitiably and you look down to see Dirk pulling him free of himself.

"There you go, nice and easy," Dirk says. Cronus's bulge writhes in his hands, thick and ridged, dripping genetic material all along its length. Dirk squeezes, and Cronus writhes on the table, pushing into both Dirk's hand and yours. You envy Dirk's obvious ease and confidence; for all that you have the same anatomy as Cronus, you don't trust yourself to handle him with any sort of competence.

Still you can't look away, either. You watch as Dirk fits some sort of sleeve around Cronus's bulge, a translucent jelly-like rubber that clings to him snugly. Cronus groans at the feel of it, and you realize what a prison it makes: it holds roughly half his bulge straight and inflexible, so there's no way he can twist back around to fill himself.

You pet his hair. "Sshh. You don't have to do everything yourself, you know. We're here to help you. If," your voice cracks and you swallow hard, trying to make yourself say it calmly, "if you need your bulge tended to, you should ask."

"Oh god," Cronus whines, and from the way he's struggling you think he actually wants to spread his legs _further_. "Please, please."

"Just like that, good boy," Dirk says. He touches the sleeve at the base and it starts to vibrate with a low mechanical hum. Cronus makes the most amazing desperate noises, full-throated trills and moans as his bulge lashes across his abdomen. Dirk beckons to you, and you come around to watch from between Cronus's legs.

He's utterly breathtaking. Bound and spread, wearing your bruises, his nook fluttering and clenching hungrily as he leaks genetic material all over himself. You can't take your eyes off him.

Dirk slips on an odd sort of glove, furred on the back and studded with little metal points on the palm, and starts to stroke Cronus's thorax with it slowly. He switches between using one side and the other, and Cronus squirms and shudders, mewling with need. It seems like such a little touch, such a simple thing to provoke reactions like that; you hadn't really considered the idea that gentleness could be just as overwhelming as pain, if deployed the right way.

You brush your knuckles down the back of Cronus's thigh, over the marks you left, and he lifts his hips, as if he's offering you his dripping nook. For a moment you hesitate there. You're not—not prepared for this, not practiced at this, not at all sure of yourself. But he's so clearly desperate for more than he's getting, and he smells so maddeningly good.

You pull your hand away and he sobs. "Do we need another reminder about using our words?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. "You can't expect to get the best care unless you're forthcoming about what you need."

"Want you," Cronus says without hesitation, throaty and raw. "Please, sir, need something for my nook, too."

"Something," you echo skeptically. "That's not particularly clear, I'm afraid. Something like this?" You let your trembling fingertips trace a line down the length of his nook, barely touching him. The scent of his pheromones is so intense you're beginning to feel intoxicated with it. "Or perhaps more like this?" You smack him, right beneath his globes, where the folds of his nook first part—sharply, but not hard.

He still jerks the way he did when you first hit him with the crop. "Oh," he says, "oh, oh," his bulge leaving fresh thick smears of violet across his skin, his hands flexing helplessly as if he's desperate for something to hold on to.

You can't help yourself. You do it again. You keep the blows light; that's incredibly sensitive tissue. But it's _glorious_ to see him like this, trembling and incoherent, entirely at your mercy. He tosses his head and sobs out more needy, beautiful sounds. You want him. You want to bury yourself in him, find out just how it would feel to sink your bulge into him and take him apart from the inside. You run your fingers down his slit to stroke the entrance to his nook, feeling the cool slickness of lubrication.

"Yes, yes, please yes," Cronus moans, trying to push himself onto your fingers. "Want you in me so bad, bro, want you to fuck me, want you to fill me up," and his voice breaks there on a stuttering chirp that you can't help but echo.

You look at Dirk. Isn't that taboo in human romantic relationships? But he doesn't look upset, only raises an eyebrow as if he's asking what you want to do. You close your eyes, feeling the weight and heat of your own desire, your body so immediate and overwhelming in a way you've spent ages refusing to allow. You nod.

"Let's flip him back over to make that sloppy hole easier to reach," Dirk says, and Cronus nods frantically. You both handle him roughly as you turn him onto his stomach, pushing him around like a thing with no will of his own. His bulge drips more violet onto the floor between his legs, and for a moment you make yourself stop and just _look_ : here he is, a seadweller (that shouldn't matter, but maybe just for a few minutes, just for now, you can let yourself enjoy it), beaten and bound and spread open so you can see how incredibly wet for you he is.

You pull your shirt off over your head and toss it out of the way; you don't even care where it goes. Your hands tremble as you fumble your jeans open, and your bulge slides from your already-dilated sheath as soon as it has room, and you thought you were long past insecurity about your hemochrome deficiency but you're glad Cronus can't look at you right now.

Dirk is watching you, but you try not to let yourself pay too much attention to that. You step closer, thinking about the schoolfeeds you had on concupiscent relations ages ago, hoping you won't be too pathetic at this, desperate enough that need overpowers self-consciousness. When your bulge first finds the slick folds of his nook you chirr helplessly at how wet and smooth it feels, how _perfect_ that seems against the tip of your bulge.

Then you sink into him, twisting and rippling into cool, clutching softness, and the two of you chirr in harmony. It feels so intensely good, so _right_ , so soothing in some primitive, vital part of your thinkpan. You press your hips up close against Cronus's glutes so you can fit your entire length into him, and already you can feel your bulge starting to pulse with the first wave of releasing material.

"God, so hot," Cronus moans, "you're so hot, 's good," and his nook pulls at you hungrily as his words dissolve back into pure sound. Dirk makes a noise then too, and you look over to see that he's unzipped his jeans, too, and is touching himself as he watches you. Maybe you should be embarrassed, but you find you're not—it just makes you feel powerful, and attractive, to know what a reaction you're provoking.

"Any chance you're willing to share?" Dirk asks. "Let me have his mouth?"

The fact that he asks you, not Cronus, makes your bulge thrash with reflexive, nasty pleasure. You glance down. If you thought Cronus would be upset, you'd refuse, but everything he's shown you so far suggests that the more he's overwhelmed with sensation, the more he enjoys himself. And you want to see it.

"Be my guest," you say. "You've been so instrumental in his reform, it only seems right for you to enjoy him." Cronus's nook clenches around you, an almost savage throb that draws more material from your bulge and makes you ache with pleasure.

You watch as Dirk feeds his stiff bulge into Cronus's mouth—it's thick and blunt, not tapered like a troll's, and you imagine it must force his mouth wide. God, and you remember what his mouth felt like, pliant and yielding. It must feel so amazing to _fuck_ him there.

And there's no question that's what Dirk is doing. He takes Cronus by one horn and holds on, rocking his hips, thrusting hard enough that you can feel echoes of it in the way Cronus moves against you.

"That's what you've been waiting for, isn't it?" Dirk murmurs, and at first you're not sure if he's talking to you or Cronus, but then he goes on—"Just wanna be a sloppy little fucktoy, don't you? Want to get used good and hard from both ends."

You trill, because Cronus's nook flexes and ripples in response to those accusations, suckling your bulge, greedy for as much material as you can fill him with. Dirk bites his lip, watching you, and you want to give back as good as you're getting.

"So much better now that you've found your place, isn't it?" you ask. "Now that you've learned what you're good for." The noise Cronus makes is muffled by Dirk's bulge, but that only makes him sound more desperate. You're not sure how much more you can take; it feels too good. "We'll h-have to give you more training, ah, so you can s-service your caretakers properly."

Dirk groans, and that sound is like a burst of triumph low in your belly. He takes a shaky breath. "Make sure you're always ready to provide a little stress relief, any time we need it," he adds. "Only fair when we take such good care of you, right?"

Cronus is moaning frantic assent and fluttering desperately around your bulge, and the idea of _keeping_ him like this, a pet, a toy, a fuckable convenience—it's too much, too wrong and too compelling, and you lose the last of your control, spilling into him in one overwhelming flood that leaves you feeling scorched and hollowed-out and perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

You start shaking in the ablution trap. You made it through the rest of the scene, through Dirk's climax and Cronus's delirious, messy release, and when Dirk offered you the use of his facilities to clean up you were grateful. But now you're coming back to yourself, less distracted by the unfamiliar, overwhelming intensity of the experience, and actually thinking about some of the things you've just done. _It's for your own good_ , you said. _The poor thing can't help himself_ , you said. You turn up the water as hot as it will go, but you can't stop shivering.

When the water starts to turn cold, you realize that hiding here is no real solution. You'll have to go out there and... and face them for long enough to retrieve your things, at least. Ugh, you're not looking forward to putting your jeans back on at all.

You step out of the trap and reach for a towel. There's a plush robe sitting folded on the counter beside the sink, and you'd swear that wasn't there before. You put it on, though, because it's better than nothing, and venture forth in search of your clothes.

You find Dirk and Cronus first, waiting for you at the foot of the stairs. "Hey," Dirk says. "How you doing?"

"Fine," you say, your hands stuffed in the pockets of the robe, your shoulders hunched. "I'll just—leave you two alone, if I can collect my things—"

"Thought you wanted to do this right," Dirk interrupts you. "Playing responsibly means making sure everybody's okay afterward."

You take a breath to answer and you can hear how shaky it is, how much it sounds like you're on the edge of tears. You freeze, unable to get words out, your throat too tight around them.

"Look, your jeans are soaking in cold water to keep the stain from setting, but I'm going to go grab you some PJs, okay? You seem like the kind of guy who's more comfortable with some pants on." Your voice still isn't trustworthy but you glance down; while Cronus is in another plush robe like you, Dirk is still dressed. His mouth quirks in a tiny smile. "Yeah, I'm extrapolating. Meet you guys on the couch in just a minute, okay?"

Dirk slips past you up the stairs, and Cronus offers you his hand. He looks worried; it's strange to see it on him. You do your best to swallow the lump in your throat so you can ask, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he says, and his smile is so gentle, so relaxed. "I'm good. C'mon, there's nice comfy blankets on the couch and everything."

You take his hand and let him lead you into the leisureblock, where there are indeed several blankets heaped up at one end of an overstuffed couch. "I really don't want to intrude," you try again as Cronus pulls you down onto the couch with him.

"You're not intruding," he insists, draping a blanket over your lap. "You were part of this too, babe." Then he stops, looking dismayed. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"No," you reassure him; you almost want to roll your eyes, it's so ridiculous. How could you possibly be angry with him after he's just shown you such trust and willingness? "No, I'm—you're fine. You were amazing." Your cheeks heat, and your own hypocrisy irritates you; you could do these things but you can't think about them in the aftermath?

"You were pretty amazing yourself, for what it's worth," Dirk says as he comes in. He's carrying not only a pair of pajama pants but also a bag of caramel-glazed grubs, and he has three bottles of brightly-colored sports drink tucked in the crook of one arm. "Here we go, recovery supplies."

While you're squirming into the pants, Cronus opens one of the drinks and swallows about half the bottle before he comes up for air. His sigh of satisfaction makes you realize how thirsty you are—you vaguely remember _that_ from the concupiscent-relation schoolfeeds, too, the warnings about fluid loss and dehydration. You take the second bottle.

"So," Dirk says, once you've had a good long drink and set the bottle back down, "what did you think?"

"It was... extremely intense," you say, which is true but seems inadequate. You open your mouth to say more and then bite your lip instead, holding the words in. The feelings you're having right now are ridiculous; how much of a grotesque hypocrite would you be if you complained about the very thing you've just used as a fantasy scenario? You close your eyes and focus on your breathing.

Cronus shifts his weight, sliding an arm around your waist loosely. You don't push him away. "Go on, you can say more'n that," he coaxes. "Never saw you so quiet."

"You didn't play the part we agreed on very closely," you say, and you think you've managed to be only mildly reproachful. You can't say you were all that upset.

"Yeah, I guess not," he agrees. He leans his head on your shoulder, careful to tilt his horns out of the way. "Didn't think I could be all that convincing, trying to get away. 'Sides, you seemed to like it."

"Yes, well." _I wanna make you proud_ , he said, and that still gets to you, still makes you shiver. "It was pleasant; it was just also implausible. It was _frustrating_ , being culled. It was infuriating. It—" Your voice cracks. You're shaking; why are you shaking? "I just—"

You curl in on yourself as tightly as you can, digging your nails into your palms, but despite your best efforts at holding onto it a sob still escapes you. Cronus whimpers and for some reason that makes it worse, makes some wretched part of you incapable of holding back anymore. The next sob is a wracking, awful thing that twists at your windchute, makes you feel sick. Cronus trills in distress.

Dirk's hand lights on your knee, barely enough pressure to feel through the thick robe. "Kankri," he says, low and steady. "What do you need, bro? If you need hugs or someone to talk to, you got it, but it's your call. We can just back off if you need some time."

You shake your head. You hate needing it, but the solid certainty of Cronus's body beside yours is a comfort, and you lean into him as you lose control of this—this _fit_ , shaking with the force of your sobs. He doesn't try to hush you, just holds on, being your anchor. Eventually you notice he's rubbing your back in slow, steady circles, and you focus on that sensation until you start to calm down.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asks, when you wipe your eyes on the shoulder of his robe. "Might help."

You sniffle, and take a deep, unsteady breath. The words come pouring out of you in an ugly torrent, like your past is an abscess lanced by the invitation. You tell them how confused you were, how angry. How solicitousness turned to condescension, how even the most benevolent intent curdled. How much it _hurt_ to be told how defective you were and how obviously you needed to be looked after. How your caretakers never listened when you were angry, only hushed you and waited for you to run out of steam, as though your anger were some irrational fit you couldn't control.

Your throat feels raw by the time you're done, the whole story caustic and awful. "And now," you conclude, your bilesac twisting, the knowledge curdling inside you, "I've perpetuated that whole revolting cycle for my own _gratification_!"

Cronus hugs you, making a sad, fluting warble.

"Whoa, back that one up a sec," Dirk says. "That's not what I saw happening at all."

"I appreciate the attempt to console me," you say stiffly.

"I'm not bullshitting you, dude." Dirk tears open the bag of caramel grubs and hands them to you; you suspect some protein would do you good, but you feel awful. "Those guys were assholes, no doubt about it. But what you were doing tonight? Not the same as what they did to you. Not even close."

"But—"

"No, hear me out," Dirk says, his eyes so intense that you subside, and let him speak. "You know what made it different? You gave a damn what Cronus wanted. I was watching you the whole time we were in there."

You want him to be right. You want that to matter. Cronus takes your hand, and you let him lace your fingers together.

"That's the crucial thing those dickheads missed, and it's what made you so much better than them tonight." Dirk is still looking you in the eyes, and you can't look away. "You paid attention, the way they never paid attention to you. And it—it sucks hardcore that they were such shitheads to you, okay, but you're _not_ perpetuating the cycle. If anything you're fixing it. Rewriting that crap, doing it the way it should have been done in the first place." A smile flickers across his face just for an instant. "With some high-caliber erotic topping on your catharsis sundae."

"That's a completely ridiculous image," you say, but you are feeling a little better. It helps more than you thought it would to have somebody say without reservation that your culling was an unpleasant and unfair ordeal. You want Dirk to be right. You want to believe that these things you've done tonight—these things that thrilled you, spoke to you, made you feel powerful and alive and whole—are acceptable.

Cronus pokes you in the ribs. "Come on, give those here," he says, but when you turn to offer him the bag he just opens his mouth expectantly.

"Brat," you say, but you're smiling helplessly as you fish a few sticky grubs out of the bag to feed him.

He grins at you completely unapologetically around the mouthful of grubs. "'S true, I'm trouble," he says. "Good think I got people like you to keep me in line, huh?"

"I suppose so." He seems so _content_. Your mental image of him for so long has been an agitated, unhappy troll, so frustrated and desperate he was ready to climb out of his own skin. Seeing him like this makes you ache with a sweet, quiet sense of relief. "This really is good for you, isn't it."

"Like to think so," he agrees.

"How about you?" Dirk asks. He reaches around you to stroke Cronus's fin, which has the side effect of draping his arm over your shoulders. You expect yourself to mind, but you don't really. "Doing any better now?"

You lean back against the couch, trapping his arm; it feels like they're both holding you now. "I believe so." You feel exhausted, emotionally, but calm. "I... assume it's not always that emotionally taxing."

"No, you kinda took a swan dive straight into the deep end there," Dirk says. "If I'd realized you had that much bad history going on with the culling thing I would have steered us in a different direction."

"Then I'm glad you didn't," you retort sharply.

Dirk stiffens against your side for a moment, then relaxes with a huff of breath. "Point to you. Sorry. My default setting is to try to keep all the gears oiled."

You nod. "I understand that your intent is benevolent," you say. "But I have no desire to be protected from things simply because they are _difficult_."

"No, you're totally right," Dirk says. "I can't promise I won't slip up on that again, but I _can_ promise to back off when you call me on it."

You feel shaky again, and you fumble for Cronus's hand. "Thank you," you say, your voice only slightly choked. The three of you sit quietly together for a minute while you think about how strange and new it feels to be held, to have Cronus's thumb brushing the back of your hand, to feel the rise and fall of Dirk's breathing.

It takes some time to put the words together in your head; you rehearse the question repeatedly before you can actually ask. "That promise makes it sound as though... Do you expect this to be a, a continuing arrangement, and not just..."

Dirk shrugs. "Never did learn to see the future, bro. But I'd like to see where it goes, and it seems like you guys have a lot of history already."

You don't have to ask how Cronus feels about the idea; Dirk's answer has him purring quietly into your ear. You swallow hard. "I don't really have firsthand experience with relationships at all, much less, ah, something this... unconventional." Cronus keeps purring, and squeezes your hand a little tighter. Dirk just waits. They aren't going to insist. They've made their offer and they aren't going to try to argue you into it. You feel calmer and more sure of yourself than you have in ages.

"All right," you say. "Let's give it a try."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Kankri: learn from humanity. [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6628579) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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